


Fire Burning

by EmAndFandems



Series: celestial, elemental [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Rain, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems
Summary: Crowley's out in the rain when he meets up with Aziraphale, who has an umbrella. (The same story as ever.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: celestial, elemental [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665244
Comments: 40
Kudos: 110





	Fire Burning

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the companion piece / alternate POV that was planned from when I first posted Rainy Afternoon and yet it somehow took 7 months to post. Oops. I hope it was worth the wait! Title is from Queen's "My Fairy King."

Crowley doesn’t notice, at first, when it starts to rain. He’s pacing the city (small spaces fill with smoke quicker) and trying not to think of anything at all; it’s only when the first trickle runs down his spine and makes him shudder that he realizes what’s happening.

He’d rather just keep walking than try to miracle anything at the moment. (Wet branches take longer to set alight.) Crowley allows himself to become soaked, and continues.

“Hello,” says a familiar voice over his shoulder, and Crowley turns.

“What’re you doing here?” Here is Aziraphale, bright and pale among the gloom. A beacon, a torch. A signal fire visible for miles from mountaintops, to signal the coming of holy days.

“I was just in the area,” he’s telling Crowley. (Firefighters are always on call.) “And it’s, er, it’s rather wet out, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Crowley doesn’t want to admit to how he’s staring at the umbrella. Thank  _ someone _ for sunglasses, though the rainwater drips down them and blurs his vision. “Hadn’t noticed. Thanks for the tip. Think I’ll be on my way now, if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale offers to share the umbrella, like Crowley knew he would, because of course, that’s the properly angelic thing to do. Help the downtrodden, assist the soaked. “Where to?”

“Don’t need your  _ help," _ Crowley spits, like the words should sizzle. Like they should steam in the cool air. He keeps walking.

But Aziraphale does not cooperate with this display of self-sufficiency; he’s holding out the umbrella anyway, saying  _ Don’t be absurd _ and well, it’d be a bit stupid to turn down an offer of shelter when it comes so easily. And oh, they’re very close now, aren’t they.

Crowley is familiar with heat. Hell, on certain days, is a veritable inferno. That Dante had some weird ideas, but he had a few good points: Heat can be a form of torture. Aziraphale’s body pressed against his under the umbrella, Aziraphale’s warmth transferring to Crowley as they are held in contact (friction can set a thing ablaze).

But miracling himself dry would only make things worse. (Dry tinder burns up so quickly.) Crowley would have to explain why he didn’t keep himself dry in the first place, and he doesn’t have an answer for that, and he would lose this chance to pretend that his motivations are innocent. If he doesn’t move, is it happening at all? (If a forest fire overtakes a tree and there’s no one to watch it burn, does it ever die?)

He ignores the bookshop when he spots it. (Lightning is not supposed to strike the same place twice, but fire makes no such claim.) If they go inside Crowley will have to endure more of this agony, of this silent consumption. This smothered, suffocated limbo (given enough time, fire will consume all available air).

Unfortunately, Aziraphale notices. “Crowley?”

There is no possible reply to give that. He makes a sound that could mean anything. (If burnt offerings require prayer, is silent worship recognized?)

“Would you be interested—Ahem. Care to come inside?” Aziraphale looks at him, waiting, and adds, “I’m afraid I really must check on the books. The humidity does dreadful things to them, you know.”

He tries to consider walking away and cannot manage it. Aziraphale is asking him in; he is asking him to stay. It would be easier to reconstruct a destroyed letter from its scattered ashes than to think of leaving now. With a roll of serpent’s eyes and a snap, the bookshop doors open, and Crowley slinks inside.  _ (Remove your shoes for you stand on holy ground, _ desert sand shimmering with sacred heat, smoke curling from a bonfire that consumes eternally because its fuel is neverending. Burning, burning endlessly.)

Aziraphale heads off to make good on his excuse of tending to his wares and Crowley waits on the sofa, silent for what could be any amount of time before he blurts out, “Well, I’ve got nowhere else to be. Let’s get drunk.”

Aziraphale pours the wine and Crowley begins the task of attempting to outrun his thoughts by out-drinking their subject.

Keeping alcohol around an open flame is ill-advised. Having flammable material within reach of a fire is, for reasons that ought to be clear, frowned upon by all reasonable safety codes and probably at least a few unreasonable ones as well. Any fluid with a sufficient percentage of alcohol content will ignite; a wine chosen by an angel with particularly fine taste in culinary matters and a particularly high tolerance is likely to find that regardless of its original state, it will soon meet this criteria with ease. Within the next hour, Crowley’s pretty sure his own bloodstream might qualify, and concentrates on keeping himself intact. A single spark, a single glance, could set him ablaze in an instant.

And then Aziraphale leans toward him, and Crowley’s breath catches, but he’s only saying, “I say, are you dripping on my lovely dry couch?” so there is no reason, really, for his pulse to have skyrocketed.

“Mm. Yeah.” It’s a challenge to keep his voice steady, but if he sticks to monosyllables and hopes hard enough, maybe Aziraphale will be too drunk to realize, too far gone to notice. (Green wood burns smokier; this is such an old flame, it can burn unobserved for so long.)

“Well—dear boy, must you?” Aziraphale’s flustered, and Crowley wishes for a fraction of endless time that he could be the cause, not the rainwater he’s getting on the sofa, just  _ him _ rendering Aziraphale incapable of speaking in full sentences: “I’d really, erm. I’d much prefer it if you would... refrain. Hold on. I’ll…”

Aziraphale’s disappeared, and logically Crowley knows he’s only risen from his seat, just moved out of view, but he can’t help craning his neck to find him.  _ Where are you? _ (In case of fire, please use stairs. The elevator cannot be relied upon; the structure is unsafe and you can’t stand to wait anymore.) But he’s back now, carrying a blanket and spreading it over Crowley as he’s sprawled out on the sofa. (Cover a flame, deprive it of oxygen, and maybe you can snuff it out.)

“There,” says Aziraphale, pleased, and Crowley doesn’t know how to pretend he can handle the look on his face, drunksoft and smiling. (Don’t put your hand on that stove, you’ll need to pull away.)

He takes refuge in snideness. “It’s not a towel. I’m still dripping.”

“I don’t have a towel,” says Aziraphale, with a tiny laugh that makes Crowley’s insides do their best to perform acrobatic activities. “What would I need one of those for? Take the—take the blanket, my dear, and don’t complain or I shall have to cut you off.”

The threat of withholding alcohol sends a jolt down Crowley’s spine. No, he certainly doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to try having this conversation sober. “Give me that,” he complains, with an attempt at taking the bottle from Aziraphale that falls very, very short. He frowns and hisses. Aziraphale laughs again. Crowley retaliates: “It’s not even a nice blanket.”

“It’s a wonderful blanket!” Aziraphale’s eyes have gone wide at the insult, and he’s still  _ looking _ at Crowley. And  _ if looks could kill _ is supposed to mean the exact opposite of this, supposed to be about expressing hatred through eye contact, but how else to explain the way Crowley feels himself melting into the couch at the force of Aziraphale’s gaze?

“S’not. It’s  _ tartan," _ Crowley says, pronouncing it like a disease, poking at a stripe like he needs to provide evidence. “And it’s not even making me warm.”

Not that he needs any more warmth, with this heat unfurling in his chest every time he locks eyes with Aziraphale. He has to look away lest he leave scorch marks on the sofa, and create a mark no towel or blanket will save it from (once burned, twice shy, and never unburned).

But suddenly Aziraphale is moving to sit next to him, to lift the blanket and make space for himself beneath it and beside Crowley. “There, now you’ll be warm,” he says, wiggling into position, and is it Crowley’s imagination or is Aziraphale a little breathless too?

He doesn’t dare move. (The resistance produced by one object acting against another results in friction; prolonged conflict may result in flames.) Crowley slowly, slowly lowers his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder, ready to bolt (if he smells smoke, it might already be too late). Carefully, he allows himself a breath.

Fires are fed by oxygen, but they can be blown out. A candle in the wind will be put out by an overabundance of the same thing a dirt-covered campfire dies without. Versatility is a gift and a curse. Crowley wonders whether this exhale, this routine release of carbon dioxide and excess oxygen, will change anything at all. If it will make any difference. If they can break free from the cycle of forest fire and rejuvenation. It has been so long. He is burning so fiercely.

Even water can burn: if it’s boiling, if it’s holy. If it’s salty. Serpentine eyes start to sting. Aziraphale moves like he’s going to leave and Crowley’s hand shoots out of its own volition, to hold his knee, to keep him in place. His voice speaks without permission: “Don’t.”

Crowley wishes immediately that he could take it back. The tears he’s been choking on start to escape, fiery water streaking hellward like the seventh plague, and who could blame him? He turns his head, but it doesn’t seem to be fast enough. Aziraphale swallows the word he was in the middle of and replaces it with, “Is…?”

Crowley has no way of knowing what the end of that sentence might be, but denial is the only course of action that won’t make the pit of his stomach rival Hell’s. “No,” he says, and then gives himself away by wiping at his face, at his traitorous cheeks. He clears his throat. “No.”

How can hands that were crafted to wield holyfire weaponry so delicately take hold of his face? Crowley knows he could pull away. He doesn’t. Aziraphale’s thumb slips beneath the sunglasses, swipes at shameful wetness, sets already-warm cheeks to burning under his touch. “Crowley?”

Shakily, waveringly: “Angel.” A reminder and a hazard sign; beware the flashing lights. But he says it again, flickering candlelight in the dark. “Angel.”

“Yes. What is it?” So ready. So warm.

Crowley makes a decision, quicker than his fear can keep up (pass a finger through the flame fast enough, you won’t notice you’ve done it). He lowers the sunglasses. Blinks. Waits.

Aziraphale says, “Oh,” and it’s gentle, so gentle, softer than Crowley could ever imagine deserving, so before he can think about it, he’s bringing Aziraphale in close and pressing their lips together. Just the once, just so he’ll know, just so he can feed the flames in the hopes that they’ll die down.

But, it turns out, he had it wrong: he is not the fire; Aziraphale is, fire and brimstone and glorious destruction and Crowley would wreck himself a thousand times, burn himself up on Aziraphale's altar for every sin he's ever done, throw himself to the flames to be entirely consumed.

Crowley has to pull away first. He doesn’t actually need to breathe but he still has to catch his breath: to check that this is real, to confirm that he’s really here. Aziraphale is still holding him.

“Don’t cry,” Aziraphale murmurs, smiling, and Crowley knows what those upturned lips feel like against his. “You’re quite wet enough as it is.”

He can’t keep the laugh in. “Okay.” Crowley can’t recall the last time grinning felt this natural. He’d agree to anything right now. (Follow the blazing pillar through the desert night; it leads you to safety, no matter how long it takes.) “Alright.”

Aziraphale runs a finger over the remnants of Crowley’s tears, and his cheeks flush; maybe the heat will help evaporate the evidence. “Promise?” Aziraphale says, quiet, delicate as his touch. He waits for Crowley to reply.

It takes him a moment. His voice has abandoned him, burnt up on entering this new atmosphere. Crowley swallows and does his best. “Promise. No crying.” Then, reckless and needy: “If you’ll kiss me again.”  _ Please, I need to know you want this, tell me you want me, show me I am not alone in this. Please. Again. _

He has nothing to fear: Aziraphale is kissing him before the words are out.

Crowley knows starlight. He has basked in sunlight. It all dims in comparison. Aziraphale is light itself, the eye-catching beauty of the dancing flame and the life-sustaining warmth of the glowing hearth. In the beginning it was said,  _ There shall be light,  _ and here is all the evidence he will ever need. Just this, for as long as he wants it, for the rest of time; just the two of them, holding one another on a bookshop sofa while the sun begins to part the storm clouds outside. Just Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> [insert the usual pleading for validation] I really love receiving comments! Let me hear from you <3


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